Clarity
by RobertDowneyJrLove
Summary: While watching him draw and sulking in her own darkness, Natasha wonders how Steve does it. How he gets out of that dark place that they all go to after a bad mission. His answer surprises her and helps her open up to him and find her own clarity.


She watches him intensely.

Nothing spectacular about watching someone draw, that she's found, but he is different. He would always be different. There's something compelling and clearly defined on the page. She likes the strong lines and soft shadows, reminiscent of himself in a way, but he's too naive to realize how much of himself he actually puts into his work. Like everything he does, he gives himself completely to his art until there is nothing left and he's drained; negative emotions poured onto a blank off-white page, like bitter black coffee down a drain. Fascinating how easily his sketchbook and a pencil that he's just about worked down to a nub can erase the darkness in his eyes and lift the heaviness of the world that bears down on him.

His pictures never depict such negativity, even with the dullness of the gray-scale. A simple number two graphite pencil, the same kind a child would carry to school, that he probably carried himself, keep his pictures basic. No vivid color, no splash of something to liven it up, because truthfully, there isn't a picture he's drawn that needs it. He puts so much of himself, of his honest and nobility, into them that color would just mar what is so utterly Steve Rogers. His pictures reflect his morality, his straight-shooting personality, and the warm purity about him.

Does he find his sense of humanity again in his art?

There's a certain fluidity, a rhythm about him when he draws; muscles rippling down his arm in torrents of strength and precision, his strong hands relaxing as he flicks his wrist, curling a line in on itself with a simple movement, reminiscent of the way he tosses his shield. His eyes flicker and change with each line, curving it or carving sharp angles into a rigid line of graphite. She finds her own sense of who he is in this rhythm. His strength and precision, the way he carries himself with such calm confidence. He is more than Steve Rogers. He is more than Captain America.

He is an artist.

He is human and he has his own dark place, just like she does. Unlike her, though, he doesn't hide in the safe retreat of darkness, he runs headfirst into it and fights with everything in him to find that light again. He never lets his world go dark for too long because he's afraid of losing who he is, of losing his instinct to fight and protect. Who he is, is important to him and he wants to protect it. _She _wants to protect it, because seeing someone who knows who they are and who is comfortable with it, is such a rarity, she'd hate for him to lose that endearing quality. So, he uses his sketchbook and a pencil to fight, letting whatever he draws guide him out until he finds his place in the world again, his humanity, and his sense of self. He clings to it until the next mission, when daunting battles and thinly veiled threats from viscious enemies threaten to tear it away from him.

"What are you drawing?" the book in her lap falls closed, the latest victim of Natasha's distraction. She'll never finish it but nevertheless, he'll dog-ear the page and put it away should she ever want to try again.

He shifts his eyes above the edge of his sketchbook and offers her a raised eyebrow, clearly wondering where the question had come from. In this little habit, they have formed, she never asks him what he is drawing, always preferring to wait until he was finished to view the final product but tonight, he's so entranced with whatever is coming to life on the page that she can't help but wonder what it is as it is so obviously special to him.

"I'm drawing light, Tasha."

His answer is simple but cryptic, at best. Light is electromagnetic radiation, visible to the human eye, but not capable of being captured on a page. Many artists have tried, using shades of white and yellow, but very few succeed to capturing light in its purest form. In her opinion, but she is not expert in art, nor will she ever claim to be one. But, she does like to think herself an expert on Steve Rogers, and she knows he's not naive enough to believe he can draw light and she's too busy sulking in her own darkness to trust him.

She slinks back into her seat, picking up the book again, and his attention reverts to the picture. Her curly hair is coming to life beneath his hand; each curl taking shape and spreading across the page. It's taken him a week to perfect this particular piece and he's still not convinced he's captured the essence of Natasha. But, then again, there were so many complexities to this beautiful creature, he's not sure he'll ever be able to capture her completely, in life or on paper.

He smiles slightly when he hears the familiar thump of a book closing and the shuffle of Natasha making her way to the couch. Just can't help herself. He reaches toward her without looking and gently taps her nose; notes of stern affection pull at his voice when he teases."Curiosity killed the cat, Tasha."

"A spy killed the cat."

Typical dead-pan snark. The air vibrates with irritation. She hates it when he teases her like this, offering no response just to rile her up. And, damn if it didn't work. He's lucky he's handsome or she might have done something politically incorrect to him the first time he played this little game with her. He smiles when his peripheral vision catches her shifting in her seat, obviously growing uncomfortable with having been caught. Deciding to drag this out for just a few minutes longer, just to see how irritated she'll get, and buy himself some time to finish, he practically sings. "Something wrong, Tasha?"

"Nothing."

"Liar." Steve accuses lightly, scrawling his signature across the top corner of the page with a few light flicks of his wrist. "I'm almost done, y'know? I'll let you see in a minute."

She nods, receding to the opposite end of the couch, curling into herself. He just sighs. She always does this. When she gets caught, when she feels exposed or vulnerable, she tucks back into herself, hiding away until the storm passes and the next mission coaxes her out of her shell. He doesn't understand why but he's working toward coaxing her out of that shell himself. With the lightness of their previous teasing gone, discomfort and vulnerability trudge in and shift everything out of place.

"Tasha," he sets the sketchbook and pencil on the table and shifts toward her. "What happened?"

She shifts uncomfortably, averting her eyes from his profile to her knees, intensely studying the intersecting lines of blue, black, and hunter green that form the plaid pattern on his sweats. Whatever happened to her today, whatever's got her in this mood, is not something she wants to talk about, or even think about, but she needs to and he wants her to. Her distraction from her book had been whatever was on her mind and asking him what he was drawing was her way of taking her mind off of it. She rests her chin on her knees and stares at him morosely. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Where are you, sweetheart?" Steve inquires tenderly, reaching over to brush a stray curl out of her eyes. "What's going on?"

"How can you draw light on such a dark day?" Natasha questions quietly, looking up at him. There's a little more animosity in her gaze and he tilts his head, curious as to what she means. "How can you do that? How can you forget the darkness you've seen and draw light? How do you capture something that seems so far away?"

He just laughs and buries his fingers in her hair, letting the red curls knot around his fingers. He allows himself a moment of quiet repose, giving her question the serious consideration it deserves before offering a simple answer. "Because it's sitting right next to me."

"What?" She's quick to protest. Silly spy. Still thinks ledgers and body counts are all he cares about. One day, she'll learn. "I'm not light, Rogers."

"You're the only constant in my life." Steve speaks softly; reverently. He wraps a curl around his finger and lets it go, his eyes tracing the delicate twist of hair as it springs back into place. "The one person I can rely on. You've always known me best, Tasha. From the day we met. I knew just working with you that you were something more than just the reputation and the moniker you came with. That's the thing about SHIELD, they don't tell you the whole story. They give your name and whatever reputation you have when you get to them. Your life story doesn't matter. But I knew, even without really knowing, that you were more than what was in a file. You were something special and I hope someday you see it too."

His words unravel her, untying the knots of strength that keep her together and tears fill her eyes. Layers of tenacity and courage peeling away to reveal the unsteadiness of a fearful little girl, forced to endure the harsh transformation from innocent child to cold spy. Raw and exposed, she can do nothing but talk, tell him everything; "I feel like I'm stuck. I go through these missions without emotion, forcing it away until I'm done. Less mess. Fury likes it that way. But," she looks up to gauge his reaction, only to find him listening attentively. "When I'm done with a mission, I don't have anything...I can't..."

"I started drawing for the same reason." Steve nods, understanding without the need of explanation. "I needed an outlet, everyone does. Whether it's drawing or breaking SHIELD's bank in punching bags."

"How do you get out of that darkness?" Natasha whispers. Her glassy eyes, so green and so bright, convey the same message he's sure she's seen in him before, pain. He doesn't remember for sure, but he thinks that the pain he sees in her eyes, has always been there. But, she's Natasha. She's strong and brave and she hides her pain well. Far better than he ever did, he'll give her that, but he wishes she would open up, show him that pain sometimes. God knows, he's shown her his pain.

"You find that person who can pull you out of it." Steve tells her plainly, chuckling as he elaborates. "And, I don't mean guiding you through it. I mean someone who'll go into that darkness with you, grab your hand, and drag your sorry ass out before you break another punching bag that SHIELD would have to replace. For me, that person is you. After a hard mission, coming home with you is the only thing that keeps me sane."

"It is?"

"Yes, Tasha." Steve nods.

"Then," she tilts her head toward the sketchbook, "Why do you draw?"

"The same reason you watch me draw." she tilts her head curiously at his answer, prodding him with her inquisitive gaze. "I like to. I find clarity in drawing."

"Clarity?" The underlying current of emotions, of stuff she tucks away, pulses heavily in her veins.

"Darkness is just that place you go to get away from whatever you don't want to feel, Natasha." Steve reminds her sternly, softening his voice to a gentle timbre when he sees her retreating. "It's coming home with a mind full of memories, of people, places, things, that you can't forget. Of weapons pointed at you, of enemies, cold and hell-bent on making sure Captain America dies. It gets hard, Tasha. On nights when you weren't here, I'd draw you. You're my best subject. It's familiar, like therapy."

"You're strong, Tasha." Steve murmurs, "But you can't keep hiding everything. Eventually it has to come out, you have to come out. How you do that is up to you."

He reaches for his sketchbook and opens it up to the page he had been working on before turning it toward her so that she can see. And, boy is it a shock. To see herself drawn so clearly, so vividly, even in graphite on a page is strange. She can't seem to comprehend that is herself she sees and the words fly out of her mouth before she can stop them; "Why me?"

"The first time you broke into my apartment, you left a sketchbook and a pencil. I filled up that sketchbook in a week. With pictures of you. I drew you from memory, it became automatic but something was always missing." Steve gathers his thoughts into something coherent. "I didn't know you very well at the time but I wanted to. When we started getting to know each other better, I came to realize what was missing. I was drawing from memory, not familiarity. I was drawing what I remembered about you physically, not what was there in other ways. I changed how I drew you. I'd draw what was familiar about you. The parts of you that you let me see when we're alone."

"Like?"

"Your thoughtfulness, so I'd draw you cooking breakfast, how you always made extra. Or, sitting on the couch, waiting for me to come home because you know I'll be tired and need you." Steve's eyes darken, remembrance of all those late nights shifting into early mornings that he's come home to Natasha half-asleep on the couch, waiting for him but still getting up early to cook breakfast. "Or, how you'd stay up the night of Bucky's birthday just to make sure I didn't have any nightmares. Tasha, there are so many things about you. I've only drawn part of what I see in you. I could never capture everything you are. Even now. But, it's all paper and pencil. You are better." Mischief sparkles in his eyes and a grin pulls at his mouth as he reminds her. "Paper and pencil can't kick my ass in a fight, claim I let her, and then kick it again."

"You let me win." Natasha was quick to assert that she is right in this.

That elicits a sharp bark of laughter from him as he draws her into his arms, settling her onto his lap. He strokes her curls again and kisses her head; "Ready to talk about it?"

She's hesitant at first, he can see it in her eyes, but he waits. He gives her the time she needs, keeping quiet as she stumbles for the words and takes the time to gather her thoughts. Her last mission had ended badly, with all involved injured in some way, and Natasha's cover blown. It wasn't the fault of anyone specific, but it had nearly been a disaster and everyone had been in grave danger. All the pain and the thoughts of what could have been weigh heavy on her, dragging her down, pulling her away from everyone. And, it takes a while for her to come back to herself but that's okay.

Because he's there to grab her hand and pull her out of that darkness.

* * *

**So, believe it or not, this is the lighter of the two Steve/Nat fics I have. I'm still working on the other one, but it's going to be a while before that's posted. I'm not too sure what this is...I know what it was supposed to be, but it didn't end up being that. I couldn't work their first 'I love you' into it. I'm going to write that story, though and this story was going in that direction, I thought but my muse changed my plans. So that's what you have to look forward too. LOL! **

**Anyway, do leave me some love. This is my first post of the new year and I'm officially back! **

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**


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